‘What do you want now, Mother? Will you never leave me alone?’

‘Why is she still alive, Henry? You killed your poor little baby sister quickly enough. You had no qualms about dispatching her at the first opportunity. So, why not the brat? She’s not even family.’

Heath looked away from the mirror and sighed, emitting a slow, deep, audible breath before speaking in a well-practised, high-pitched voice that hurt his throat. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, not this again! It’s a simple enough plan. I’ve told you all about it more than once. You’re too much to cope with sometimes, a burden rather than a help. I’m tired, Mother. How many times do I have to explain myself?’

‘For goodness’ sake, calm down, boy. What on earth is wrong with you? I’d wash your mouth out with soap and water if I could get my hands on you. Is there really a need to swear?’

Heath dropped his head, turning away from the mirror, avoiding her accusing gaze. ‘Do you want me to explain again, or not?’

He heard her snort loudly before she spoke again. ‘I’m all ears, Henry. You’ve got my attention. But come on, get a move on, start talking. Get on with it.’

Heath lowered himself to the floor, his legs crossed under him, and looked up at the beamed ceiling, as he pictured his mother hovering. ‘I targeted the brat because her bitch mother dismissed me without a thought in the worst possible way. That, I’m sure you’ll agree, is worthy of punishment. If I kill the brat now, it will all be over far too quickly. Don’t you get it? The brat’s bitch mother could begin the grieving process. I don’t want that. I want to drag her suffering out for as long as feasibly possible.’ He smiled coldly. ‘Sometimes, the anticipation of pain can be infinitely worse than the pain itself. I learnt that over the years. I sometimes used to bring a victim close to death and then resuscitate them, repeating the process multiple times, before killing them when the anticipation of death became too much for me.

‘I want to give the bitch mother hope and then snatch it away again. I plan to taunt her time and again until she can’t take any more. Until she’s craving death’s dark release, the welcome oblivion of the grave. I want to crush her emotionally. I want to facilitate her psychological destruction, minute by minute, hour by hour, one slow day at a time. Now, do you get the message, Mother? Was that clear enough for spirit ears?’

His mother’s image merged with the dark beams and white-painted boards of the ceiling, swirling, fading, and then coming back into sharper focus. ‘Oh dear, Henry, you really do worry me sometimes. I can’t help but question your judgement. Why not kill the brat now and be done with it? That’s what you’ve always done in the past. Why change a successful protocol? Do you really think it’s a good idea to keep her alive?’